Sky, Cloud, You...

I sit on a bench

in the lamp-post park

and make notes 

on the world.

Yellow jacket skaters

baby pram pushers

fence talkers 

and coffee cup whistlers

scoot along the path.

I write it all down:

how the hawthorns 

have almost fallen over,

how the dogs

fly into the open arms

of clouds,

and then I see

the long hair tied back

the gentle face of a lion

the eyes like water.

The women are calling:

Come on! This way! Come on!

But we sit on the bench

you and I 

and talk 

ten years worth of tales.

Old friend,

you stroll like a miracle

out of the shoe lacers 

and the rucksack joggers

out of this green painting

and into the day.

breakfast after space travel

two eager astronauts 

we board our rocket

strap ourselves in

lap up the sky 

fast as we can

we explore the stars

from sargas to altair

play on lyras harp

hear orb music 

in the silence 

fly on the wing of apus

dizzy with constellations

meet other worlds

they show us 

how we are all dust

we love the taste of oxygen 

we dont need food

our minds grow wide 

fill with particles of light

bathe in ultraviolet

nebula dive 

deep and deep until 

our rocket shakes and smokes

rust metal bits threaten to fall 

we have our fixing kit 

try to fix 

the planet rings 

screw those rocket bits in place

we land on earth

we cant explain 

but i see in your eyes

what 

together

we have seen 

we try to make a normal breakfast

what do people eat for breakfast?

what is normal?

breakfast

two astronauts

sit together at a table

it sounds like

the start of a joke

it seems important to get this right

we sit for hours 

take in the scene

liquid fills the glass

is this milk whiter than the moon?

why do the flakes of bran

not float into the sky like asteroids?

any moment i expect the furniture to drift

gravity is strange

what keeps us sitting here?

i have to take my space suit off

gloved fingers 

cant hold 

so intricate 

an instrument

a spoon

you keep your space helmet on

the visor down

how will you eat?

i like the oxygen you say

its better than the stuff out there

but the world is out there

the table is out there

i am out there

how will i kiss you?

A Family Visit

These two sisters can’t stop visiting each other. 

Anna is the queen of heaven and earth, 

an A-list celebrity on all the invite lists. 

She learns that her sister, Kiki, queen of the underworld, 

is mourning the death of her husband, Frank. 

He was a complete animal 

but Anna must pay her respects.

Before her journey to the underworld, 

she decks herself out in her designer best. 

She begins her descent, 

only to be stopped at seven security gates during the journey.

(Kiki always was a bit of a control freak.) 

At each gate, Anna is required to give up another symbol of her status: 

her faux fur, 

her Jimmy Choos,

her iPhone, 

all her passwords,

the keys to her Porsche,

her tickets to the Beyoncé concert,

and, at the last gate, her personal trainer, Mike. 

She arrives at Kiki’s domain 

stripped of everything she was, 

completely naked.

The place is a mess of mould and rotting food. 

I love what you’ve done with the place, she says.

What are you doing here? Kiki roars. 

I’ve come to pay my respects, says Anna. 

Your respect makes me want to barf, says Kiki.

It looks like you already did, says Anna. 

Sometimes the shortest of conversations

Are too long.

Kiki kills Anna and hangs her body 

on a meat hook in a corner of her living room. 

Nice, she says. 

Everyone should hang a family portrait on the wall.

But Anna’s no fool.

Before she left California, 

she suspected something might happen. 

She texted her Grandpa, the king of the gods, 

if I’m not back in 3 days come get me xoxo luv u!

Three days and nights drag by.

Kiki watches reruns of The Sopranos

and shoots macabre selfies with Anna’s phone.

Something to remind her of her visit, she says.

When Anna does not return, 

Grandpa creates two therapists 

from the dirt beneath his fingernails, 

(he has real dirty fingernails) 

who descend to the underworld in search of Anna. 

Arriving in Kiki’s living room, they find her freaking out. 

She says: “Oh, my back!" 

They say: “Oh, your back!" 

They show compassion for her pain, 

recommend a good osteopath. 

She is moved by this. 

She offers them anything they desire. They say: 

“We want the corpse hanging from the meat hook in the corner". 

Kiki is pissed off about being tricked out of her sister's corpse, 

but she honours her promise and gives them the body. 

She may be queen of the underworld but she, too, has a code.

The therapists sprinkle spirulina and wheatgrass juice on Anna’s body, 

and are able to revive her. 

I feel great, she says. I must have lost ten pounds! 

The therapists think she looks like shit -

her face too drawn, shadows under her eyes - 

but they keep their mouths shut.

Anna ascends back to California, 

regaining all the regalia of her position 

at each security gate on her return. 

Unfortunately, she was dead during the Beyoncé concert.

This puts her in a bad mood.

When she gets back, she discovers 

that her husband is also an animal. 

He’s been shtooping her PA while she’s been gone.

But it doesn’t matter. 

She knows that Kiki will visit soon 

and then the fun will start again.

Going to See The Queen

They say every woman is secretly looking 

for that one perfect destiny, 

which can be worn day and night. 

But I wanted a regal destiny 

so I could go and see The Queen.

When I entered the shop,

the sales-assistant took my hands and said:

Every girl deserves her dream destiny 

and we want to help you find it! 

Not only do we offer an incredible price point, 

but all of our destinies are customisable 

so you can really say your destiny was made just for you!

I was amazed at the array:

Rainbow coloured fur, 

silver nets studded with stars,

golden samite, bright as the sun.

The lady frowned and said: 

Why not try a cream-coloured A-line destiny? 

Perfect for that family wedding,  

you can also wear it in the garden, 

while shopping, even while sipping a gin and tonic. 

Simple and plain, it can go anywhere. 

But, I told her, I wanted a regal destiny 

so I could go and see The Queen.

I tried on trapeze destinies fresh from the circus,

the silks and veils of the Arabian Nights,

himalayan prayer shawls scented with incense.

Nothing seemed to fit.

The lady looked concerned: 

Why not try a little black destiny

that creates the ultimate look 

for just about any occasion: 

in the office, at a business dinner, 

dancing the night away or even going to the beach. 

But, I told her, I wanted a regal destiny 

so I could go and see The Queen.

She said: Our destinies feature lace detailing, 

bold floral and new season prints. 

Mini destinies make a statement 

in monochrome tones with flashes of “hot off the runway” shades.

For a summer destiny to be an all-time favourite, 

it has got to be loose, flattering and washable.

And then I saw it:

in cloth the colour of the moon

washed by hand in the sea of shadows

sewn together with invisible threads.

They say you should never pay

for your destiny in cash.

So I took it and fled.

I ran through the streets.

I ran with my moon destiny.

I ran right up to the palace,

and I went to see The Queen.

Morning

Slowly it begins:

the sun wafts into the garden,

drips green onto the moss,

trails gold along the stone.

The bush funnels up the shade

where it will wait out the day.

Before long, the terrace shines white,

blinds the opening of windows.

The shingles crumple and shift

in the unfamiliar heat.

Umbrella tops drip with bamboo.

Pipes rumble and run along the walls,

the taps accelerate,

the drains burble

with rust-berries and fallen leaves.

Twigs twist out of charcoal bags

and the fences crowd with doves.

Our ladder climbs up! up!

into the hangout of the crows.

But those old birds don’t care;

they are dining on last night’s dreams.

Aerials rake the clouds,

harvest the songs and signals

out of the bluebell sky - 

and the wheel of the morning 

flies open.

Norse Sound-Bites

I.

I am a feeder of ravens.

When you see them swoop

Suddenly from the sky

It is my hand they seek.

I do not feed them

With grain or seed

But with tales of their brothers.

They land in the green clearing,

Circle my feet and listen.

II.

I’m no girl of the houses.

I have read the papers

and know my mind’s worth.

I speak the language of the birds

And know the music of the sea.

I have travelled the swan road

In a ship of night. 

And gathered to my shoulders

The sky’s black cloak.

III.

My oldest friend 

Is the Lord of Laughter.

He tells me things that split my sides

Like an axe splits wood.

When I leave his company

My bones hurt for days.

Behind the Flowers

All the perfume in the world

will not destroy him.

We burn oils of geranium and camomile

in quaint ceramic bowls,

try to smother him with beauty.

But he waits

in the dark, with the things

that have no home:

ironing boards, broom handles,

hammers, empty suitcases.

It was a night out on the playing fields 

when we met him, my friends and I.

Invisible as he was, he was beautiful.

We welcomed him into our circle

and he made us look cool.

When he was around, we felt like

cowboys against red rocks,

femme fatales lounging by the piano

with mysterious eyelashes.

Everything should be fine, we say now.

We have sealed the walls and floors,

poured self-expanding foam into the cracks.

Still, in he creeps -

the smell of a funeral pyre days after burning.

He steals into our noses, lungs, 

our eyeballs, even.

He delights in mists and blindings.

He seemed wiser than any of us, though silent,

always there at the important moments:

that last exam, the end of school,

the first train ride to France.

Later he was there for break-ups,

at three in the morning,

there for the tears and trembling hands.

But now we think ourselves the wise ones,

open all the windows, try to coax him out.

You will never be rid of me, he says.

I am outlawed in the cafes and the bars

and so I fall into the air.

You think I will go away. 

But all the charcoal, all the citrus, 

all the incense in the world 

cannot destroy me.

We sense him close by before we fall asleep.

We are always searching it out,

that stale smell behind the flowers,

making sure it is still there - 

a reminder of our betrayal.

A Zamoran Wedding Custom

There is a region called "Land of the Longing" 

located in the province of Zamora 

where the bride at a wedding must consume 21 longings: 

Longing with salt. 

Offered to the guests 

to represent hospitality. 

Fried longing.

Coated in crumbs 

to prevent sticking.

Longing pudding.  

A bit boring, if you ask me. 

No special spices or sweetenings.

Longing stuffing. 

Designed to fill cavities or retain juices 

that otherwise might drip away. 

(Whenever you are faced with life’s empty spaces, 

simply cram with longing stuffing 

for an instant feeling of potential satisfaction.)

French longing. 

Usually found in Paris, 

or in people who want to go to Paris.

The long loaf of longing.

It used to be you could only find this in Paris

but it can now be found at most supermarkets.

Symbolic longing.

Among the most popular varieties in the world. 

Believed to contain the mysteries of life and death.

Commercial longing.

Contains additives, some of them non-nutritional. 

Found on TV, the internet, bus stops and magazines.

Mass-produced longing.  

Often criticised for its poor nutritional value 

and bland taste. Available sliced or unsliced.

The miracle longing. 

Usually brought about by saviours and prophets 

on your behalf.

Soft longing.  

For duvets, pillows, and sheepskin rugs, 

sofas, beanbags, and other comfy places.

Crusty longing.

You have held on to this one for too many years. 

To get to the good stuff you'll have to break your jaw.

Fresh longing.  

Always seems the most possible, 

particularly in the morning.

Wonder longing. 

No childhood would be complete 

without wonder longing.

Balloon longing.

The type that pulls you high into the sky, 

but once you are up there, you can’t let go. Ever.

Sandwich longing. 

At least three different varieties

squished together.

Artisanal longing. 

The rustic variety: walks through the woods, 

picnic hampers, a roll in the hay.

Sweet longing.

Eaten in the evenings with warm drinks 

like traditional cocoa.

Leavened longing.

Can be developed slowly over time,

but often filled with too much hot air.

Unleavened longing.

Tends to be flat but tasty.

Comes in handy when wandering through the desert.

Longing cake.

The stuff of birthdays: trimmings, candles, 

icing, silver balls, hundreds and thousands. 

A longing snack. 

For those who don’t want to commit 

to a heartier longing. 

Whatever might be left over 

is shared with the wedding guests, 

who are given bags filled with longing to take home.

Standing Luscious With Too Many Veils

Standing luscious with too many veils, 

Necklaces, flowers, strewn over walls and floor.

I can’t see the beauty for all the ornaments. 

Each glass, each table edge, intricate, inlaid. 

Each seat a work of art. Where shall I sit? 

So I stand in gold slippers, 

A golden sash round waist and hips. 

Fingers touching pearls,

Bangles jingle with each move. 

I have seen too many things. 

My eyes are crowded with pictures.

Then the delicate stink of the rose 

Wafts through the air. Whispers to follow. 

I grab one stem from the banged brass vase,

Dart through the first door I can find. 

We run, the rose and I, down stairways, 

Passages, courtyards, underground chambers, 

Until we come to one stone room.

On the walls and floors: nothing. 

Only the room itself. The stone, cool. 

The soles of my feet are planted here.

I place my palms, my forehead, against the wall,

Feel blessed to be in such an empty place. 

And now the images float outwards

Like a river flowing from my eyes, my mind. 

I now unsee all that I have seen: 

Horses walk backwards from the war, 

Men take off their armour. 

Love is unspoken and returns to the heart. 

Feasts are uneaten, food returned to the pantry, 

Flour returned to the fields. 

Everything moves backward. 

But the rose moves forward in time,

Where it will become more than itself.

Its petals fall to the ground, 

Become pot pourri in someone’s house, 

Grow the colour of wine, of blood, 

Blacken, and turn to dust. 

The dust lifts into the air, sails through the window, 

Is carried by the wind out to sea. 

It coats the planks of a merchant ship,

And gives a blessing to the journey, 

Becomes the spark of the sailor’s dream at night,

And flowers there into a truer rose.

And I take off my many veils.

Not married. Not schooled. 

Not taught the ways of walking and bowing. 

I become once more a creature of the first light, 

I roam through grass and wild flowers. 

My eyes restore themselves,

Change from brown to blue 

Then close. An end to all the pictures. 

Just the cool stone now. 

I drink one glass of water and leave. 

Where do I go now? I can go anywhere.

The Mountain Man

The Mountain Man lived

On the mountain peak

In a tiny hut.

He kept his food

In two straw baskets

That hung down the slopes

On either side.

Thus he maintained

The balance of his life.

One day a month

He went to the market.

Pointed and paid

With golden coins

And the villagers whispered

Stories of his strangeness.

One curious boy

Followed The Mountain Man

Back to his hut

On the mountain top.

A path with no hiding

But the man did not turn

And the boy was sure 

He could become invisible

If he stood

Completely still.

The man went inside.

The boy stayed outside

And waited for something

Unusual to happen.

But The Mountain Man

Only built a fire

And made some soup.

The boy grew hungry

With watching

And nibbled from the basket

By the side of the hut.

The more he nibbled

The hungrier he grew.

Until the hut began

To tilt and slip.

The man rushed out.

He saw the boy.

The boy trembled

Could not become invisible.

The hut trembled too

And fell

Into the below.

What have you done

To my simple slanting bones?

Cried The Mountain Man.

His first words in years,

Crows escaping

From his throat.